


Moriarty/Moran ficlet and drabble collection 2

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Asexuality, Drabble Collection, Ficlet Collection, Homosexuality, M/M, Romance, Slash, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 08:00:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Second collection of ficlets/drabbles written using single word prompts provided by a random word generator.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moriarty/Moran ficlet and drabble collection 2

**Pornography:** ”I appreciate that you have certain needs, Moran, but really.” Moriarty eyes the photographs with distaste. All of them feature young men and women wearing broad smiles and not much else. “Must you bring such things into the house?”  
  
“Nothing wrong with the naked human body, sir.” Moran remarks, scratching at his beard.  
  
“I did not say that there was. I dislike you leaving this…  _pornography_ lying around however.”  
  
“They’re just pictures.”  
  
“Of other people.”  
  
Moran stares at him, then laughs. “Are you  _jealous_?”  
  
“Don’t be absurd.” Moriarty promptly tosses the photographs into the open fire, where at once they begin to curl and blacken.  
  
Moran watches them burn with a pang of regret. They are only pictures but they’ve served him well enough when Moriarty isn’t being obliging and it’s too cold or wet to go on the prowl for another conquest.  
  
Moriarty stalks away and Moran turns now to gaze after him, wondering if he’s somehow managed to offend him. Sometimes the colonel does think to wonder if Moriarty is troubled by his interest in others - a ridiculous idea really, since Moriarty is hardly lacking in self-confidence.  
  
Still…  
  
“Professor?” he calls out, bounding up out of his seat and striding after Moriarty.  
  
Moriarty halts, turns and regards him in silence, apparently waiting for Moran to say something more. Unfortunately Moran isn’t quite sure what he’s meant to say. He’s not going to reassure the man that he only loves him because that would be silly and soppy and it’s not as if Moran  _does_  love him anyway, now is it?  
  
“Well?” Moriarty says, after Moran has been stood there staring at him wondering what to say for several seconds. “Moran, if you’re not going to say anything then I do-” He doesn’t finish though, because Moran finally decides that actions speak louder than words, grabs Moriarty by the lapels of his jacket and shoves him back against the wall where he proceeds to kiss the professor passionately.  
  
Rather to his surprise, Moriarty doesn’t hit him. Even more surprising, he actually kisses Moran back.  
  
Maybe, thinks Moran after the kissing has gone on for several minutes, he won’t miss those pictures after all.  
  
 **-**  
  
 **Theorem:**   Moran, bored, prowls around the professor’s study, saying nothing and finally pausing to peer over Moriarty’s shoulder.  
  
“Stop doing that, Moran, it’s most off-putting.” Moriarty glares up at his right hand man.  
  
“Sorry sir.” Moran steps back a pace. “What are you reading?”  
  
“It is a treatise on the Binomial Theorem,” Moriarty informs him.  
  
“Ah.” Moran nods slowly. “I see.”  
  
“I wrote this in my younger days,” Moriarty says, with a faraway look in his eyes that Moran would almost be tempted to call ‘wistful’. It clears in a moment however.  
  
“Your great work, is it?” Moran queries, as if he’s remotely interested in the topic.  
  
“Oh no, it is merely the first of my significant works.” Moriarty scrapes back his chair and stands up, and then impulsively he grabs Moran’s hands, pulling him closer so that they are almost nose to nose. “In fact I do believe, Sebastian, that the greatest of my works is still yet to come, with your help, of course.” He smiles, and Moran grins at him too.  
  
“Aye, sir,” he says, “but I somehow doubt that you’ll be able to publish a treatise on that one.”  
  
 **-**  
  
 **Homosexual:**  “I’m not homosexual,” says Moran, and Moriarty - lying atop him, as naked and soaked in sweat as Moran, with his companion’s release splashed up his abdomen - laughs.  
  
“My dear Moran, I’m afraid I beg to differ,” he says.  
  
“I’m not though.” Moran’s legs are still wrapped around Moriarty’s body, though not so tightly now. “At least, not  _exclusively_. I still like women too.”  
  
“And yet not in the way you like men, I think.” Moriarty presses another kiss to Moran’s lips, which are already reddened and slightly swollen from their earlier kissing. “And certainly not in the way that you like  _me_.”  
  
“Perhaps not,” Moran agrees, grinning, “but then you, James Moriarty, are thoroughly unique.”  
  
-  
  
 **Funeral:** Appropriately, it rains, so that by the time the coffin is lowered into the earth the hole is already filling up with water.  
  
Moran stands and watches, doesn’t say anything, just stands there with rain dripping off his hat brim. Even when the few others that attended the funeral leave, he remains, watching the man filling in the grave who hurries to try to get it filled before the rain worsens. Shortly even he leaves and it’s just Moran left there alone, staring at the grave, smoking a now sodden cigarette.  
  
“I thought,” says a voice behind him, “you said that you were not attending the funeral.”  
  
Moran throws down his cigarette end; grinds it into the mud with his heel, then turns to face Moriarty. “And yet you knew to find me here anyway.”  
  
“You are predictable, Moran.” Moriarty looks impeccable in his dark suit and overcoat, despite the rain. He stands under a black umbrella and now beckons Moran to join him under it. “I knew that you would want to see him buried, if only to make sure he was truly out of your life.” He links his arm through Moran’s, pulling him tight against him, pleasingly warm and solid and alive, not like Moran’s hated father. “Come on,” Moriarty says, guiding Moran towards the cemetery gate now. “I have a feeling that you could use a drink now.”  
  
-  
  
 **Detective:**  Moriarty’s fury at the foiling of his latest plan is palpable, though he has gone absolutely quiet. Only Colonel Moran would dare approach him when he’s in this mood.  
  
“That meddling detective again?” Moran queries.  
  
“Yes,” Moriarty hisses.  
  
“Say the word, Professor, and I’ll take him out.”  
  
“Not yet.”  
  
“When, then?”  
  
“When he has ceased to be of interest to me.”  
  
“Pah, interest.” Moran screws up his face in distaste. He is not a man who plays too much with his prey because he knows that sometimes the prey can spring back at you when you least expect it. Best to kill them quickly and cleanly. “How  _interesting_  will he be when he has you arrested, or worse? Let me kill him.”  
  
Moriarty steeples his fingers together in his lap and tilts his head to regard Moran. “If I did not know you better, Sebastian,” he says, “I might assume that you were jealous of the attentions I have been giving to Sherlock Holmes.”  
  
Moran glares at him coolly, although aren’t his cheeks just a little bit flushed also? “Jealousy don’t come into it, sir. I care more for the fact you are allowing our prey to lead you a merry dance; to toy with you more than you are toying with him.”  
  
Moriarty, to his surprise, chuckles and bounds to his feet. “Oh Sebastian.” He takes Moran in his arms; rubs soothing circles against his back, although Moran looks barely appeased by this, glancing off to the side instead of at the professor. “Let him win his small battles; they are of little consequence.” He shifts his head slightly, so that Moran has to catch his eye. “We though, my dear Moran, shall win the war.”  
  
-  
  
 **Aesthetic:**  ”I don’t understand your attraction to me,” Moran complains, slightly tipsy by now. “I mean, you don’t like me how I like you, or how I like others.”  
  
“No, I do not,” Moriarty agrees.  
  
“But are you attracted to me at all?” Moran asks. He thinks of himself as handsome enough and he has bedded enough eager partners to support this notion. Yet Moriarty, even though they do have physical relations from time to time, seems still never to react to him as others do.  
  
Moriarty waves a hand vaguely. “You have many aesthetic qualities that I find appealing, certainly.” He laughs at Moran’s still disgruntled expression. “What, do you wish me to wax poetic about your facial features? Compare your eyes to a summer’s day? You are no romantic, Colonel, and neither am I.”  
  
Moran sniffs. “It would just be nice to feel that you actually desired me.”  
  
“I  _do_  desire you, Sebastian.” Moriarty pats his knees, beckoning Moran over.  
  
“Not as others do.” Moran stands up and goes to him anyway, sitting astride him and slipping his arms loosely around Moriarty’s neck.  
  
“That is because I am  _not_  other men.” Moriarty tugs him into a brief kiss, which seems to appease Moran somewhat. “Do I lust after you? No. Do I think you handsome? I suppose so. Do I desire you as my companion in my professional and private life both? Yes.” He disentangles Moran’s hands from his neck; holds both of them in his own strong hands, placing a kiss against the knuckles of Moran’s left hand. “What is most important, Moran? Lust is fleeting; it flickers and fades. What I feel for you, however…”  
  
“Love?” Moran suggests, with an impish smile. He’s joking, of course, but only because the brandy has made him bold. Ordinarily he would not even jest about such matters. Perhaps he’s afraid that one day Moriarty might actually say that yes, it is love.  
  
Moriarty laughs. “I would not go that far. Still, what I feel for you… it is far less transitory.” He rubs his thumb over Moran’s knuckles now. “I would like to think,” he says slowly, “that you too regard me as rather different to all your countless other conquests.”  
  
Moran’s mouth quirks into a strange half smile. “Of course you are; you are unique.”  
  
“And do you love me?” Moriarty asks simply, causing Moran’s eyes to widen.  
  
“Of course not,” he replies, quickly; too quickly.  
  
“Of course not,” Moriarty echoes, and chuckles, genuinely amused. “Well then,” he says, “that’s all right then.” And he draws Moran into another kiss, still brief, but sweeter now.  
  
-  
  
 **Married:**  He looks at Moran’s face across from his on the pillow. His fierce, perhaps slightly feral gunman is relaxed now, eyes half-closed, his mouth pulled into a sleepy smile. Moriarty has come to like seeing him this way, sated and contented; completely relaxed. It’s so rare that Moran ever does relax fully, especially in company, and knowing therefore that the colonel trusts him enough to let his guard down around him gives Moriarty a strangely warm feeling inside.  
  
“Sebastian?” he says. “Have you never wished that you were married?”  
  
“Mm,” Moran says, not bothering to open his eyes. He shifts closer to the Moriarty, slipping his arm around Moriarty’s body. “Can’t marry you though, can I?”  
  
Moriarty stares at him for a moment. “No,” he says, “you cannot.”  
  
“Doesn’t matter though,” Moran remarks, his lips almost brushing Moriarty’s throat as he snuggles up against him.  
  
“Doesn’t it?”  
  
“Well we’re as good as married anyway, aren’t we?”  
  
“Yes,” Moriarty says, stroking Moran’s hair and breaking into a fond smile, “Yes, I suppose that we are.”


End file.
